


Herald's Rest

by Bananasaurus



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Amputation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Like REALLY vague, Minor Trespasser Spoilers, Post-Canon, Post-Trespasser, Short One Shot, Vague mentions of BDSM, gratuitous use of commas, just an idea that wouldn't go away, like it almost doesn't warrant tagging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-26 05:03:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7561495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bananasaurus/pseuds/Bananasaurus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The stories always fail to mention the after, always leave out the parts about the hero walking away from the battle a little less whole than when they started.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Herald's Rest

**Author's Note:**

> Not new to writing fanfiction, but new to actually posting it. So this oughta' be interesting.

Trevelyan is no stranger to injury. When you dance up close and personal with enemies twice your size and only a pair of daggers with which to fight, you tend to earn more than your fair share of scars. 

But this...

She can still feel her arm; it's been months since the Exalted Council ended, and she still feels it seized in pain, clenched tight in a fist that wont loosen its grip. 

Some days it's only a dull throb, a prickling sensation up through the forearm of a limb that isn't there. Other days it hooks into her: a sharp, stabbing agony, like knives in her palm and the pulse of magic in sickly green, twining its way up her arm. 

But there is no hand, and there is no pain, and there's nothing left to heal, no hurt left to soothe, so she spends those days in bed and nurses a bottle of brandy until she's loose enough to sleep. 

Sera distracts her often, keeps her mind off of everything but the here and now. They spend those nights racing across rooftops leaving mischief in their wake. It's a different brand of justice compared to when she was Inquisitor, but no less satisfying. Those nights, she feels free, and alive. She gets herself a brand new arm in gleaming silver, courtesy of Dagna, that shoots arrows almost as fast as Bianca does; Varric is only a little grumpy when he hears about it.

But there's only so much traipsing around with the Jennies she can take before the world outside of the dark back-alleys and catches back up with her. Those nights, when her mind is buzzing, and wondering, and worrying, she sits down and pens a letter to Cassandra. The Inquisition may be officially disbanded, but its core, its heart, is still beating, and while their work has waned, it isn't done.

There are some evenings when she's alone with nothing but her thoughts for company. When Sera is away, visiting Dagna, or doing Maker knows what. Those evenings, when the estate is too empty, and too quiet, and her thoughts are too loud, she clutches the crystal around her neck and calls Dorian. They sip wine together, a worlds distance apart, and Dorian catches her up on everything that's been going on in Tevinter, talks to her until the gloom muddying her brain has eased and she can finally sleep. It isn't the same as the nights they'd spent in Skyhold's library, but it's a close thing, and it's surprisingly enough.

\----

When Bull is there, it's all easier to forget, the ache easier to ignore. There's enough pain going on elsewhere: the good kind, the sharp, sweet, stinging pain that crawls up her spine, spreads heat through her body and leaves her tingling and numb; that she can't focus enough to pay attention to her spasming phantom limb, or the doubts that plague her. 

When it's over, and she feels heavy and boneless, and she's teetering on the edge of a dead tired sleep, he wraps her up, and tucks her close, her own personal bulwark against the world and all its problems, and all the things she has to do, just like he's always been. 

Those are good days, better than good, even. They drag her back to reality, remind her of what she fought for, of what they've accomplished, and what she found along the way. 

In the morning, she always feels lighter, brighter than before, like coming out of a dense fog. Those mornings, she helps Bull with breakfast while Sera enthusiastically regales him and Krem with tales of their somewhat embellished exploits. 

Their laughter fills the spaces in her chest, forces warmth through the coiling darkness that has made its home in the pit of her stomach. It feels almost normal, like nothing has changed. It feels good. It feels right. She smiles, drinks it in, and her clenched fist loosens just a bit.


End file.
